


Lover's Eyes Pt 3

by kam



Series: Lover's Eyes [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-17
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-25 21:05:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/642950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kam/pseuds/kam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Christmas Eve in this one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John carried the tree up the stairs, and Sherlock helped him decorate it with only minimal complaining. Within two days, fourteen packages had appeared under it, all wrapped neatly, most sporting bows of some sort. Sherlock began playing carols, and John made eggnog. Mrs. Hudson brought up several trays of biscuits and sweets, which John tucked into happily while Sherlock nibbled appreciatively. They both expressed dismay when Mrs. Hudson informed them that no, she wouldn’t be coming round on Christmas Eve – she was going to visit her sister and wouldn’t be back til after Boxing Day. They hung their stockings (well, John did, anyway,) and, after a rousing argument over whether or not to leave biscuits out for Santa –

“He’s not _real_ , John!”

“It’s the principle of the thing!”

– they sat down on the couch with their eggnog.

 

“It’s traditional,”

John began,

“to open one present the night before.”

Sherlock nodded, crossing to the tree to select a present.

“No,”

John grabbed his wrist, pulling him back.

“I’ve picked one for you. You can, um, pick one for me. To open.”

Sherlock nodded, leaving his wrist in John’s grip and selecting a small package from beneath the tree. ‘To John,’ it said simply, and John had to release Sherlock to open it. Beneath the dark paper, he found a small book, entitled ‘Your Star’. He flipped through it, reading the card that fell out.

“Sherlock..?”

Sherlock cleared his throat, ducking his head.

“As you find the solar system so important, I thought it fitting. Stars are apparently considered romantic, though I can’t fathom why – they’re simply large balls of gas, and the likelihood that any of the stars we see are still in existence is slim-to-none. Nevertheless, as our society places such a high value on them, I wish to inform you that you, John Watson, are a ‘star,’ and though I do not share the belief, I whole-heartedly agree with the intention.”

 

Sherlock was surprised when John kissed him – they had shared a few simple, chaste good morning or good night kisses, now that John occasionally slept in Sherlock’s bed. There was nothing simple or chaste about this kiss, however. John surged forward, pressing Sherlock back against the arm of the sofa, lying half on top of him, curling one hand around his neck and the other around his waist. His lips were hard and demanding against Sherlock’s, and Sherlock willingly opened his mouth to him. After several long minutes, he pulled back, kissing and licking at Sherlock’s throat, nipping fiercely above his collar. Sherlock gasped, and John sat up, eyes hazy, and stared down at him.

“Time for your present,”

John’s voice was slightly hoarse, and Sherlock blinked, slightly confused.

“Yes,”

he cleared his throat – John still hadn’t gotten off of him, but he wasn’t complaining. He was, however, curious to see what John had picked for him to open early.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is accidentally romantic sometimes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a Christmas gift in this one.

John took a deep breath and climbed off of Sherlock, nudging him into a seated position.

“Close your eyes,”

he asked, voice soft, and Sherlock complied. Slowly, John began shedding his clothes. Sherlock frowned, then gasped, as he recognized the sounds, but he kept his eyes closed, as requested. When John was done, he took Sherlock’s hand, bringing it to his hip.

“May I…”

“Not yet,”

John whispered, guiding Sherlock’s hand up his side, across his chest, then back, over his stomach, down to his other hip. He turned, releasing Sherlock’s hand, which continued to explore on its own.

“John,”

Sherlock breathed, and John faced him, kneeling and catching his hand.

“Yes,”

John whispered, and Sherlock opened his eyes, hungrily taking in John’s skin, more golden than ever in the firelight.

“John,”

he pulled John up, into his lap, and wrapped his arms around his waist. John leaned down and kissed him, gently.

“Yes,”

he murmured, when he pulled back.

 

Fact: John Watson is currently naked, straddling my lap. Deduction: John wants to have sex. Further: John wants to have sex. Now. With me.

 

Sherlock tried to stand, tried to lift John, but John stopped him, kissing him gently and cupping his face.

“Here,”

he murmured, and Sherlock nodded silently.

“Let me,”

Sherlock nodded again, leaning back, hands still gently gripping John’s waist, and let John begin to undress him. John took his time, unbuttoning each button slowly, examining each bit of skin with eyes, fingers, lips. Sherlock rubbed small circles into John’s skin, and a small smile played across his face. When the shirt was open, Sherlock sat forward so John could peel it off and toss it aside, the expensive silk forgotten as it settled to the floor. John sat back, examining Sherlock, all pale skin, lean muscle, and nervous energy, just like he remembered. He traced his fingers over the scar – non-serrated blade, between five and six inches, point of entry two inches left of navel, diagonal path up and left across eighth, ninth and tenth ribs. Right handed assailant, attacked from behind. Sherlock grinned, and John realized he’d been speaking aloud.

“Ambidextrous,”

Sherlock murmured, and John grinned.

“There’s always something.”

 

Sherlock reluctantly let John slip to the floor. He held his breath as John undid his flies, lifting his hips when asked and letting John slide his trousers and pants off.

“I’ve missed this,”

John murmured, looking up at Sherlock from his knees. Due to the sudden migration of blood downwards, Sherlock found himself incapable of responding, and settled instead for pulling John back up, settling him once again on his lap, and kissing him thoroughly. When he pulled back, he had regained enough of his sense to pitch his voice low and growl,

“I missed _you_.”

He was rewarded with a full-body shiver from John, which very quickly turned into John rocking his hips against Sherlock’s, and then both of them were incoherent. John pressed his face into Sherlock’s shoulder while Sherlock mauled John’s neck – if John would just be good enough not to wear a scarf tomorrow, there would be no question in anyone’s mind as to to whom John belonged.

 

John lost track of time. What felt like hours passed, and he would have been content to let more go, except to be honest, his neck was a bit tender just now, and he had to pull Sherlock off. Sherlock growled in protest, but John placated him with kisses and a particularly hard grind.

“John,”

Sherlock’s voice was deep, so deep, and John could feel it vibrate in his chest.

“John, I want to… Can I…”

“Yes,”

John whispered, pressing a kiss behind Sherlock’s ear.

“Yes.”

He reached behind one of the cushions, pulled out the bottle of lube he’d hidden earlier, and Sherlock tightened his grip, pressing their bodies closer together and kissing John again.

“How long,”

he ground out, and John smiled and blushed.

“A few days. I wasn’t… This was just in case. Tonight made me sure.”

Sherlock nodded and lifted John a bit, pushing him up onto his knees. John took deep breaths as Sherlock coated his fingers, and he tried his best to relax into the now-unfamiliar stretch.

“Breathe, John,”

Sherlock commanded, stroking his free hand over John’s skin.

“Talk to me,”

he whispered, and Sherlock nipped at his lower lip.

 

“I was a fool to think I could live without you,”

John dropped his head onto Sherlock’s shoulder, and Sherlock kissed his neck, smirking a bit at the ever-darkening blooms of red and purple.

“I don’t ever want to be apart from you again. Please, John, never again.”

Sherlock meant to be patient, he really did, but when John began moving his hips, he couldn’t help but slip in a second finger, then a third in short order.

“I have been waiting for this, John, for this moment. Ever since I left your flat that first day, I have waited for this moment,”

Sherlock slipped his fingers out of John, shrugged John’s head up off his shoulder, and took a firm hold of himself, lining their bodies up.

“I have been waiting, John, for the moment I could hold you like this, look into your eyes, and tell you,”

he pushed in achingly slowly, holding John’s gaze the entire time. John hissed as Sherlock sheathed himself completely, but didn’t blink.

“Tell me what,” he panted, straining to move as Sherlock held him absolutely still.

“I love you, John Watson.”

 

John was still and silent for a long moment, eyes locked on Sherlock’s but gaze vacant. Sherlock hadn’t said that since… Well, since John had had a panic attack in response to it. It hadn’t occurred to John, honestly, that he had been holding back saying it. John hadn’t said it, because, you know,  bit bloody obvious, isn’t it? But here it was, now, he’d said it, and John allowed himself, for the first time in years, to think of the first time. ‘Mrs. Hudson informed me that I am in love with you,’ he’d said, and proceeded to confess his bewilderment, snog John half to death, and then come all over John’s hand on the sitting room floor. Something else about it niggled at John, but he couldn’t quite place it, and anyway, here he was, Sherlock was _inside_ him, and why was he wasting time thinking, honestly? He blinked twice, shook his head, smiled, and kissed Sherlock.

 

Being in John was not as good as Sherlock remembered. It was better (tricky thing, memory.) John was everything, he was slick and heat and pressure, and Sherlock wanted to lose himself in John and never come back. _How_ had he meant to live the rest of his life without this? This, the feeling of John, not just around him, but the weight of John in his arms, the scent of him, the taste of his sweat and his skin… This was at the very top of Sherlock’s hierarchy of needs, food and shelter be damned.

 

John’s knees were beginning to hurt. The skin on his back felt tight and hot from the fire. His neck was sore and throbbed in places. He didn’t _care_. His body remembered Sherlock, that primal part of him was crying out, saying, ‘yes, yes, _mine_.’ Sherlock held his hips tightly and pumped up into him, and John braced himself against the back of the sofa. His eyes were huge in the firelight, and John wanted to drown in them – it would be like falling into icy water, cold and shocking, and John would know he was _alive_.

 

Sherlock wanted it to last forever, but he felt his orgasm approaching far sooner. John had been unobtrusively tending to himself, and Sherlock could easily read the signs of John’s impending orgasm, as well. He reached up, gripping John’s neck and pressing their foreheads together, locking eyes.

“Together,”

he panted, and John nodded, picking up his pace a bit. Sherlock had to bring his hand back to John’s hips, so John brought his free hand up to keep their foreheads pressed together. For long moments, they stared into each other’s eyes, each concentrating on his own task but acutely aware of the other, syncing their movements and pace.

“Soon,”

John gasped, biting his lip and clenching down deliciously.

“Yes,”

Sherlock’s nails bit into John’s hips, moving his own hips impossibly faster. Their breath mixed between them, and Sherlock felt a bit high.

 

“Nuh… God, hnn, Sherlock!”

John threw his head back as his orgasm swept over him, and he felt Sherlock press his head against his chest as he pulled John’s hips tight down to his own, fingers gripping convulsively. They rode it out together, shaking their way through aftershocks for long minutes. Finally, the tension bled from John’s body and he collapsed against Sherlock, nestling into the crook of his shoulder. Sherlock dropped his head against John’s shoulder and promptly went offline. John did his best to catch his breath, bringing his arms up to sneak between Sherlock’s back and the sofa. Several minutes later, Sherlock stirred, taking a deep breath and wrapping his arms around John, levering them off the sofa and stumbling to his room. They collapsed on the bed together in a tangle of limbs that John never wanted to escape. Sherlock somehow  found the energy to stand back up, moving the sheets about until John was covered before crawling back in next to him, dragging John against his chest and nuzzling into his hair. John was on the verge of sleep when a thought struck him, and he burst out laughing.

 

“What? What is it,”

Sherlock barely had the energy to be peeved, but he managed to inject a semblance of it into his voice.

“Do you remember,”

John broke off into giggles, and Sherlock nipped at his ear.

“Remember _what_.”

John fought to control himself, finally managing to force out,

“The first time. I’d forgotten. Just like tonight. Oh, Christ.”

He broke down again, and Sherlock rolled his eyes, deciding the easiest thing to do was wait for John to finish. He trailed off eventually, taking deep breaths and turning to kiss Sherlock.

“The first time we had sex. I had a panic attack in the shower, remember? You were holding me on the sofa, and I remembered that I hadn’t said ‘I love you’ back. And then you said it tonight, and I forgot to say it back, again.”

Sherlock sniffed.

“You needn’t feel any pressure to say it.”

“Shut up, you wanker,”

John murmured, nuzzling into Sherlock’s neck.

“I love you. I always have.”

“Not _always_ ,”

Sherlock began, but stopped at a sharp bite from John.

“Yes, well. I love you, too, clearly.”

“Clearly,”

John grinned, and nestled closer to Sherlock, closing his eyes.

“I have to wonder, though,”

Sherlock paused, and John fit in a ‘what’ around his yawn.

“How can Christmas hope to compare with Christmas Eve?”

John laughed until he fell asleep, and Sherlock kissed his forehead and followed him happily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a little fluff for you.  
> Almost done.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the epilogue.

John woke first, and he grinned and reached up to kiss Sherlock awake.

“Come on, it’s Christmas,”

he urged, when Sherlock tried to roll away and burrow under the covers.

“It will still be Christmas later,”

Sherlock grumbled, allowing himself to be coaxed back out and kissed a bit more soundly.

“It won’t be Christmas morning.”

Sherlock caught John as he tried to get out of bed, pulling him back and kissing him insistently. The next half hour passed in a tangle of limbs and lips and whispered ‘I love you’s. Both noticed the knock at the front door, but both were determined to ignore it – whoever it was couldn’t possibly be quite as important as the two of them.

 

In fairness, Sherlock should have known better. Roughly five minutes after they ignored the knocking, footsteps minced their way through the apartment, daintily avoiding last night’s discarded clothes, and stopped in the doorway to Sherlock’s room. A throat was cleared, and John froze. Sherlock sat up with a snarl.

“Get out,”

he roared, and Mycroft offered his politest smile.

“They will be here in ten minutes, my dear brother. I suggest you dress.”

Sherlock leaned down, grabbing things off the floor to hurl at Mycroft until he retreated, closing the door firmly behind himself.

“Ten minutes,”

he reminded.

 

“Who’ll be here,”

John asked, after Sherlock had spent his anger in a rough kiss.

“Mycroft’s called the media here for a ‘breaking news story.’ The return of Sherlock Holmes.”

“On Christmas?”

Sherlock shrugged, kissing down John’s neck, adding a few new marks.

“His idea.”

“Christ, Sherlock, we’ve got to get dressed!”

“We have ten minutes.”

“Sherlock, I…”

Sherlock quite skillfully distracted John, and when Mycroft knocked politely ten minutes later, they were no closer to being dressed than they had been, though each was wearing a satisfied smile.

“Up. Now. I will meet them at the door, but you _must_ be there.”

With a sigh, John hauled Sherlock out of bed, tossing clothes at him until he began to dress. John hurried upstairs, pulling on his nicest jeans and a clean shirt and jumper. His neck didn’t occur to him until he was dragging Sherlock down the stairs.

 

“Don’t,”

Sherlock grabbed John as he tried to head back upstairs.

“Leave it, please.”

John blushed and nodded, trying to tame Sherlock’s curls a bit.

“I want everyone to know,”

Sherlock whispered, leaning down to nip at John’s lip.

“You’re mine.”

John kissed him quickly, then pulled him downstairs.

“Ready,”

he asked at the door, and Sherlock took a deep breath. John reached for the handle, but Sherlock grabbed him.

“Once more, for luck,”

he whispered, kissing John until neither could breathe.

“Ready,”

John gasped, and Sherlock nodded. They took a moment to catch their breath, and then John opened the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's that.


End file.
